


The Case Of The Missing Violin, or The Empty Coffin

by OfTeaAndJumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship/Love, Gen, I don't know if this story even makes sense, M/M, Post S4, Revenge, case!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 00:28:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10955910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfTeaAndJumpers/pseuds/OfTeaAndJumpers
Summary: Someone has stolen Sherlock's violin from Euros's cell. As John and Sherlock set out to find that person, things get complicated because Sherlock is hiding something important from John. What will happen when John finds out? Will it damage their friendship forever or will it help them acknowledging their feelings?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So... I am finally posting my post-S4 fic. It took me a while to finish it because I constantly had the feeling that there are logical flaws. But as S4E3 was full of highly unlikely events and illogical actions (in my opinion), I thought at least my fic is how I want things to go between John and Sherlock.
> 
> ANY comment on my fic is much appreciated!! Please tell me if there are any language/grammar errors as I am no native speaker.
> 
> Enjoy and tell me what you think!
> 
> And tell me if you spot my reference to another show :-)

“ _Hi... uh... I got your number from Sherlock.”_

“ _Not with his consent, I presume?”_

“… _No.”_

“ _Interesting that. You have access to his phone. You must be close to him.”_

“ – –“

“ _Ah, not as close as you would wish. Thought so.”_

“ _And why would you come to that conclusion?”_

“ _Because you wouldn't call me if all was fine and dandy with him. I'm trouble, my dear.”_

“ _Trouble's exactly what I'm looking for.”_

“ _Is his little boyfriend involved?”_

“ _Boyfriend? Oh, you mean John. They're not a couple.”_

“ _Yes they are.”_

“ _Actually, this is about John. But he mustn't know. This_ has _to stay between us.”_

“ _And I thought Sherlock was a drama queen. Very well. How can I help you?”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Oi, Sherlock, stop pacing the room like a lunatic. Tell me what happened.”

Five minutes ago, Sherlock had entered 221B looking positively baffled. His messy curls flopped dramatically over his clouded eyes, the ever-present scarf was slung carelessly around his neck. At first, John had assumed that his restless mind was preoccupied with a new case from Lestrade. By God, they needed one. The past four weeks had been a somewhat dull routine. Admittedly, one they had welcomed at first. After the recent events – Mary's death, meeting Sherlock's genius but psychopathic sister, the detonation at their flat – they were glad to be able to settle in quietly in their newly renovated place.

Even Sherlock, who grew bored so easily, seemed to have gained a peace of mind and was more agreeable than usual. They developed a comfortable daily routine, with John going to his part-time job as a GP, while Rosie was with a nanny and Sherlock conducted his usual experiments or read every science magazine he could get his hands on. Now and then they had to solve a case, but Lestrade seemed to think they needed a time out. He had rarely contacted them lately. When John came back from work early afternoon, he would already have picked up Rosie from the nanny and would spend the rest of the day with her – and Sherlock.

It sometimes occurred to John how domestic his life was since he had Rosie, and how much it suited him. Of course, he still loved the thrill of a good case. Danger had drawn him to Sherlock in the first place – it fueled his restless mind with adrenaline and endorphins and blissful silence. He had craved danger like a drug addict craved his next shot. John suspected that, due to his pathological hunger for dangerous situations, his relationship with Sherlock sometimes bordered on unhealthy. He couldn't care less. Besides, it was all different now that Rosie was in their life.

When, after Sherlock's “death” he started dating Mary, John had accepted that his life would become less adventurous (blissful ignorance!). Although Mary had deceived him in many ways about her identity and her past, he had been grateful for her presence in his life and her unwavering friendship to Sherlock. For weeks and months after Mary's death, John had fallen into a bottomless pit of grief until his best friend was able to reach out to him. Over time, Sherlock had somehow become his significant other. John never questioned it, although he sometimes wondered what it was that made their bond so unique, and so difficult to explain to others (and himself). But he had stopped a while ago to be bothered about what other people thought about them. He was content to live with Sherlock in 221B, just like old times, with the addition of his beautiful daughter. Rosie had taken a great liking to Sherlock; and Sherlock never even once complained that she was a nuisance. When John had asked him one day if it was okay that they were having a baby at 221B, Sherlock had simply answered:

“Don't be daft, John. Where else would you two live? Rosie is a Watson, and therefore family. Just like you.”

John had had to hide a smile at that.

Now he nimbly took a step forward, interrupted Sherlock's frantic pacing, and placed both his hands on his friend's shoulders to calm him down.

“What. Has. Happened. Tell me.” He put on his best Captain Watson face, his dark blue eyes boring into Sherlock's, lips set in a straight don't-mess-with-me line. Sherlock sighed.

“My violin. Gone. Impossible! How ...? It was supposed to stay safe with her ….” He drew a shaky breath, and John quickly interrupted his ramblings.

“Where did you last see it?”

“In Euros's cell, of course.” Sherlock sounded a tad annoyed, his face clearly saying _Do keep up, John_.

“Oh, right. Sorry, I forgot.”

“You never noticed I no longer play it here?”

“Now that you mention it … I _do_ miss the joys of waking up at 3 AM to your, ah, _unique_ compositions.” John made a straight face, while his eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement.

The irony, of course, was lost on Sherlock.

“Do you now? I could've kept it here. But I wouldn't want to wake Rosie in the middle of the night.”

“How very thoughtful of you.”

“Don't make such a surprised face. I _can_ be thoughtful.”

“Never doubted that. So … today you went to see your sister, and the violin was gone? Did she tell you something?”

“I bet she could have. But she didn't. It's one of her silly games.”

Sherlock's tone was even, but John could see right through it. Sherlock was highly irritated. He had tried to build up some kind of relationship to his sister these past few weeks, attempting to make up for a lifetime of lost opportunities, and now … this. It seemed that, _again_ , she simply wanted someone to play her cruel games with. If ever the term of “high-functioning sociopath” was adequate, it was for Euros (not Sherlock, _never_ Sherlock), John thought. John had never really forgiven her, bad childhood or not. And he flat-out refused to accompany Sherlock on his visits. Having a difficult relationship with his own sister Harry (whom he nonetheless called regularly), he could appreciate that Sherlock still wanted to see Euros, though. Family bonds are strong, after all, and Sherlock always seemed so calm and serene after the violin sessions with his sister. John hated to think that it was Euros herself who now betrayed her brother's trust.

“Listen, Sherlock. We both know how your sister can be. Don't let her pull you in one of her games. That's what she wants. You shouldn't give in.”

“Then what, John? I can't let the matter rest. That's not how this works.”

“Well then, enlighten me, genius. How _does_ this work?”

“I know my visits mean a lot to her. She wouldn't want to keep me from coming. Therefore, this might be a game which she secretly enjoys, but someone else has started it.”

“So you're _not_ the only one visiting, then?”

“I see my brains finally rub off on you, John.”

John rolled his eyes, good-naturedly, finally pulled his hands away from Sherlock's shoulders and slapped him playfully on the arm.

“Let's find out who it is, then.”

Sherlock looked as if he would dash out straight away, but John reminded him that it was 8 PM and they had to put Rosie to bed. What was more, they couldn't very well order Mycroft _now_ to have them helicoptered to Sherrinford. Sherlock eventually gave in to John's reasoning and slopped down on the couch, sulking. But when John returned from Rosie's cot, he found his friend fast asleep, all sulking forgotten. John couldn't suppress a smile. Usually, it was way easier to make Rosie go to sleep than Sherlock. Come to think of it, he had two children to mind now, just as he and Lestrade had joked a while ago. He put a blanket over Sherlock and absentmindedly stroked a stray lock from his face, before stifling a huge yawn and retiring to his room.


	3. Chapter 3

“ _Hello, Mycroft. It's been such a long time. I'm delighted to see you.”_

“ _I find myself unable to return that sentiment.”_

“ _Always so pompous. God forbid that someone see your thoughts behind that pleasant facade.”_

“ _What do you want?”_

“ _I want to meet you sister.”_

“ _I'm awfully sorry to disappoint you, but last time I checked, Sherlock was still a man.”_

“ _Ah, Mycroft, you should know better than to try and delude me. I know where you are hiding Euros, in that little comfy cell. I know Sherlock visits her regularly.”_

“ _I have no idea what you are talking about.”_

“ _No? The empty coffin? Does that ring a bell?”_

“ _Has Sherlock told you all this? He wasn't supposed to.”_

“ _He didn't. And I strongly suggest you don't inform him about our little conversation. Otherwise, I am forced to tell everyone about Sherlock Holmes's psychopathic sister. I am sure the press will be delighted.”_

“ _Are you threatening me?”_

“ _I am simply laying out the terms of this … understanding. I want to meet Euros.”_

“ _What for?”_

“ _Let's say, it's for Sherlock's benefit. Eventually.”_

“ _How so?”_

“ _Oh, I'd rather keep that bit to myself. It would spoil the fun. Let's just say that I am acting on someone else's behalf.”_

“ _Who?”_

“ _A friend.”_

“ _A friend?”_

“ _A friend of Sherlock's. Trustworthy.”_

“ _This all sounds quite ominous to me, and I'd rather not be involved. But I have no choice, do I?”_


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock, brother mine. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Mycroft had left the manager's office and greeted John and Sherlock as they were approaching Euros's cell tract. Although his face betrayed his words of welcome, there was no real menace in his voice. It seemed to John that, ever since the brothers had to work together to solve the riddles Euros had set for them, they grudgingly respected each other. Nonetheless, they still kept up that much-loved tradition of trading insults.

“You know very well why we came here, Mycroft.”

“Pray tell, how would I know that? Much to my chagrin, I am not gifted with foresight.”

“But with spying on other people.” Sherlock snapped.

“And what is that supposed to tell me?” Mycroft asked politely, if somewhat bemused.

Sherlock was on the verge of making another scathing remark, when John cut in.

“Oh stop bitching for once, will you? You're worse than Harry and her on-off girlfriend.”

The two Holmes brothers, for once in unison, shot John a look that clearly said, _Don't interfere. What do you understand of the importance of brotherly bickering?_

John did not bat an eye. He had long since become immune against Holmesian death glares.

“Sherlock's violin has gone missing, Mycroft. It was here in Euros's cell, the whole time. When Sherlock came here yesterday, it was gone. What do you know about it?” Tired of the back and forth, he cut right through the chase.

Mycroft's face gave nothing away while he answered.

“I am loath to admit it, but I have no idea what happened.”

“I have a hard time believing that, Mycroft.” said Sherlock.

“You might recall that I was not even here when you came to visit Euros yesterday. Nor the day before. Believe it or not, but I do have other things to do. Running a country, for example.”

“I bet that as soon as you received my call this morning, you sensed trouble. You instantly went over the security footage in case there was something unusual.”

Mycroft's face was answer enough. He sighed.

“Come see for yourself.” He opened a door not far away from Euros's cell and entered codes and times in the computer where the footage was stored.

“See?”

The footage showed Euros's cell. Sherlock's next-to-last visit bore last Friday's time stamp. Nothing out of the ordinary could be seen for the days after. Euros pacing the confines of her cell, warders bringing food, Mycroft talking on his mobile ...

“Stop!” Sherlock, who had watched the monitor like a hawk spotting his prey, pointed to the screen.

“What the …?” John looked disbelievingly at the screen; Mycroft made a resigned face.

Where, a few seconds before, the monitor had shown the empty passage to Euros's cell, suddenly there was … nothing. Only a blank screen.

“You already saw this bit, didn't you?” Sherlock did not even bother to hide the anger in his voice. “Who could have been tampering with the footage?”

“Believe me, that's what I've been trying to find out since this very morning. I would have gladly presented you with the culprit. But, sadly, no success so far.”

“Honestly, Mycroft, how many different people could have had access to this room last week? It's hardly rocket science to find that out. Even you could do it.”

John suppressed a giggle. Sometimes it was just plain amusing to watch these two dorks snapping at each other's heels. Seeing how seriously Sherlock took this, he quickly sobered up and shot his friend an apologetic smile.

“I suggest that Mycroft continue finding the person responsible for this” – he indicated to the empty screen – “and we talk to Euros.”

They left the computer room. Mycroft returned to his office, while Sherlock and John approached Euros's cell. Euros was already waiting for them, enigmatic smile on her face. It was the first time since Sherlock had rescued him from the well at his parents' house that John saw Euros. He had a hard time keeping his cool. Everything from that dreadful night rushed to the surface of his memories. He could taste the bitterness of holding an innocent man at gunpoint. He heard the mad cackle of Moriarty and the pleadings of the girl on the plane. Although the voices had turned out to be fake, John's fear had been all too real. He tried not to give in to his dark memories, but to face the task at hand.

“Hello, John. Delighted to see you are well.”

 _Last time you weren't so concerned about my well-being_ , John thought. But he did not say anything. They weren't here to exchange pleasantries, nor would he be able to win a battle of words with Euros. So he simply kept silent.

“Sherlock. Did you miss me already?” John slightly winced at the _miss me_ part. By God, he was bloody sick of those two words.

“I miss my violin. But you know that already.” Sherlock's voice was clipped. John could see the tension in his firmly set lips.

“Tsts” Euros tutted, not unlike Mrs Hudson, but far less charming. “You are much too straight-forward for my liking. In case you haven't noticed, this is a game. You need patience to properly appreciate it.”

John was at the end of his tether. _Games_. Were they simply here for her entertainment? Wasn't it enough what she had done to them? He was fuming. No more hiding his anger. He took a step forward and faced her directly, giving her his best _don't-fuck-with-me_ glare.

“Frankly, Euros, I don't give a shit about what you're playing at. You may have endless time on your hands in that comfy little cell of yours. But we are normal people who lead normal lives.” _Okay,_ normal _is not the word that comes to mind in connection with Sherlock_ , John thought, _but no time to dwell on that now_. “It seems someone has stolen Sherlock's violin from this place. He could not have done it without you. As the security footage is erased, prison staff might be involved too. See, Euros? That's all pretty straightforward, if you ask me. Even I could deduce it.”

“I see.” Euros's voice bled amusement. “And what makes you think that you are any closer to find out who this person is?”

“I trust Sherlock's abilities. He probably deduced from your micro expressions whom you were talking to.”

“Sherlock can only deduce what I choose to allow him to.”

 _Don't be so goddamn smug_ , John thought. He found himself at a dead end.

Throughout their short exchange, Sherlock had watched his sister intently. He thought he knew where this was going, but he needed to be careful. Careful and patient. He knew what Euros was capable of. He also knew that she wouldn't endanger his regular visits. Or would she?

“I think you overestimate yourself a bit, little sister.” he carefully said.

“Oh, now you make me curious, Sherlock. What could you possibly have found out?” John thought he could detect a hint of insecurity behind her even features.

Sherlock wasted no time in rattling down his observations.

“Clearly, your overactive mind needed a distraction. How could it not? Being trapped in this cell must be a bloody nightmare. Although you try to keep up a neat appearance, your nails are bitten down. A sure sign that you are bored and desperate for stimulation. However, given that your latest _prank”_ – John grinned at Sherlock's deliberate belittlement of Euros's game – “brought you in even closer confinement than before, I am certain you wouldn't risk losing your few privileges here. No. Someone else has started this. But you happily play your part, I can see how animated you are. You didn't object to anything John said. But your face showed a minuscule frown when John was referring to that someone as a 'he'. Hence, I assume that person must be a woman.”

Euros did not change her expression.

“A woman? No. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Sherlock took a split-second to look at her face, then  he unceremoniously grabbed John by his elbow.

“Let's go.”

“Wha –?” John was confused.

“Now.”

“Not trying to gather more data, Sherlock? I'm disappointed.” Euros said.

“Oh, I have enough data. But I won't spoil the game by telling you. Goodbye.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

“I knew you'd come, Ms Adler.”

“Science of deduction?”

“Oh God, no. Facts and deductions are so … mundane.”

“I agree. Human emotions are much more appealing.”

“Speaking of emotions: Sherlock doesn't know you're here, I take it?”

“Of course not. But this _is_ about him.”

“I thought so. What kind of game do you have in mind?”

“I want to steal something that is precious to him. And give him something much more valuable back which he doesn't even know he's missing. Oh, and someone else gets their sweet revenge.”

“Delightful. To put it in my dear brother's words: the game is on.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

“Care to tell me what you found out?”

They were back at their flat, Sherlock with a satisfied grin on his face, John still at a loss. Although he possessed enough self-esteem not to be bothered by the fact that Sherlock often left him puzzled – the man was a genius, after all – he sometimes wished Sherlock wouldn't be so damn cocky about it.

Sherlock was already seated on the couch, while John rummaged in the kitchen's cupboards for clean mugs. The kettle was happily humming along. Rosie was still with the nanny, to be picked up in two hours' time. As Sherlock was not helping, John tried to methodically recall what Euros might have given away during their encounter.

_She said the person meeting her was_ not _a woman … But Sherlock is sure of that. A woman... A woman …_

Who could possibly want to steal Sherlock's violin? And why? Who was close to Sherlock and held a grudge strong enough to engage in such a game? What was more, that someone had to have knowledge of Euros, and Mycroft made sure that no one besides close family (John included, of course) knew of her existence. Unless there was a leak somewhere.

John went through the women in Sherlock's life. Well, the women he knew of. But as Sherlock had said at the very beginning of their friendship that women were  _ not his area _ , John doubted there were that many in the past, let alone that they were of relevance.

_ Sherlock's mother. _ Out of the question. No motive. She would rather be angry with Mycroft because he kept the fact that Euros was alive a secret for years. 

_ Mrs Hudson _ . Ridiculous. She loved Sherlock. Granted, she knew of Euros's existence (Sherlock had told her because she insisted on knowing who was behind the explosion). But she would never team up with Euros behind Sherlock's back. There was simply no reason.

_ Sally Donovan _ . She and Sherlock were barely on speaking terms. Although she stopped calling him  _ freak _ , she still couldn't stand the fact that he frequently let the police appear like a bunch of idiots. But – and this was a big  _ but _ – she didn't know that Sherlock had a sister. So this was a dead end too.

_ Molly _ ? It took him a while to cross her out. She had been deeply involved, albeit not by choice, in Euros's game. John would never forget her voice on the phone when she told Sherlock that she loved him, nor Sherlock's pained expression throughout the conversation. John had almost physically been hurting to see Molly being put through this humiliation. To find out that it was for nothing, as Molly never had been in real danger, was somehow even worse. 

John sometimes wondered how he would have felt in Molly's place. He didn't want to dwell on that. Of course he loved Sherlock. Though what kind of love it was exactly often left him puzzled. Maybe it wasn't important, after all. Still, it was something else entirely to speak that simple truth out aloud. John didn't know whether he would ever find the courage to do so, nor if doing so would destroy the delicate balance of their relationship. So he simply let it be.

_ Back to Molly. _ Three weeks before, Sherlock had announced that he would be seeing her to apologise, and to offer her an explanation. John had wanted to come along, but Sherlock had said this was something he had to do alone. When he came back from Molly, he had seemed calm, pensive even. John had had the impression that Sherlock was glad to finally having apologised to Molly. He never indicated that Molly might still hold a grudge. And even if she did, John doubted that she would go as far as getting involved with Euros. It simply didn't sound like something sweet Molly would do.

_ That leaves Irene _ , John thought _. _ Irene, who always sparked some inexplicable jealousy in John. Irene, who had vanished for years, and who happened to send that damned text message at the precise moment when John and Sherlock were having their emotional talk, just before John was having his near breakdown and ended up crying in Sherlock's arms. 

_ Don't think about how it made you feel to have his arms around you... Concentrate. Back to the matter at hand.  _ John couldn't come up with any motive, but Irene was all he got. Something Euros had said came back to him, and he struggled desperately to connect it to Irene. 

Suddenly, the penny dropped.

“Not a woman. Not  _ a _ woman.  _ The _ Woman!”

“Finally catching up now, do you?” Sherlock said. A lazy smirk was on his face.

Sherlock's phone chose that precise moment to vibrate and moan. _Irene_. John made a disgusted face and retrieved it from Sherlock's coat.

Two words blinked on the display.

_Miss me?_

 


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was pacing the flat again. His brilliant mind, usually light years ahead of everyone, was stumbling.

 _Irene_. _Irene? What does she want from me?_ _Haven't thought about her in ages. Obviously, she'd thought about me..._

Every time Sherlock heard from Irene – which was next to never these days – he had the unsettling feeling that she knew what he was doing at any given time. _Or why would she choose to interrupt that emotional talk between me and John a few weeks ago by texting me?_ _Was it even intentional?_

He thought about that moment when John was about to leave their flat, then turned around and came back to him. Let himself be consoled by Sherlock. Against all odds, they'd repaired their broken and damaged friendship. Nothing else mattered. So Sherlock, in the midst of an emotional turmoil, had simply deleted Irene's message, unread. After all, it could have been a coincidence. But knowing Irene, Sherlock doubted that. He now bitterly regretted having deleted the text; it might have given him some clue as to what Irene was planning.

_ I am missing something important _ , Sherlock thought. But he couldn't put his finger on it. For the time being, he had to work with the clues he was given. 

Meanwhile, John sat on the couch, ungraciously slurping his tea, and mumbling something barely audible to himself.

“Honestly, what does she want? Is this supposed to be a joke? Sorry, Irene, not funny. Stealing Sherlock's violin … what's in it for her anyway?”

He would have happily continued his rant forever if Sherlock hadn't stopped him by flopping down next to him and stealing his half-empty mug. By now, John was more than used to Sherlock's typical lack of boundaries. It no longer bothered him. That he secretly enjoyed Sherlock's constant invasion of his personal space was a fact he never even admitted to himself.

“John, listen. I know every sign points to Irene. And we should pursue that until we gather new intelligence. But ...”

“Who else would do this? Who would be so manipulative and cunning as to team up with Euros? Irene is the only woman I can think of.”

“And that's exactly why I think this is too easy.”

“Oh, just because  _ I  _ come up with her name, it is too easy now? Thanks for downgrading my intelligence, Sherlock.” 

John was clearly pissed off now. His face was all rigid lines and firmly set lips. He stood and stomped off into the kitchen, switching the kettle on. His anger at Sherlock mingled with that familiar pang of jealousy he always felt when dealing with Irene.

He hated it.

Sherlock had followed him into the kitchen. Resting his lanky frame against the counter, he spoke carefully.

“I merely suggest we keep our options open. Not narrowing our minds to the one solution that is dangling in front of us.” Sherlock leaned towards John and reached above him to get a new mug from the cupboard. “There.”

John was not so easily placated, although Sherlock's close proximity gave him a whiff of the detective's perfume, which he found oddly distracting.

“Do you have someone else in mind, then?” He tried to sound casual about it.

“It's only a guess at this stage, but yes.”

And that was all Sherlock would say, no matter how hard John was prying. John finally gave up and, in an even fouler mood than before, announced “I need some fresh air.” He grabbed his coat and left the flat without so much as a mumbled “Git.”

Sherlock stood in the middle of the kitchen, at a loss. This … his violin stolen, another game in which Euros was involved, Irene … the whole case reeked of something personal. The violin was merely a tool to distract him from something much bigger. He had a vague notion what this was about, but if he was right, then it would not do to tell John now. He had to be patient and wait for the next clue.

He did not have to wait for long. Half an hour after John had left their flat, Sherlock received another text from Irene.

 _Time to play, Sherlock_.

_What do you want, Irene?_

_This is not about me or what I want._

_Then why did you get involved?_

_Let's say I was bored. You of all people should know the lengths one is going to to avoid boredom._

_Care to give me some clue as to how I get my violin back?_

_The great Sherlock Holmes is asking for clues? Unheard of._

_I'm getting tired of this, Irene._

_How about that: this is not about the violin._

_What do you mean?_

_Goodbye, Sherlock._

 


	8. Chapter 8

After he had left the flat, fuming, John barely saw where he was headed. It was a good thing that he remembered calling the nanny to tell her that he would be late in picking up Rosie. He stomped along Baker Street in the vague direction of Regent's Park. A brisk walk was just the right thing to do to calm down his nerves and sort through his jumbled thoughts.

 _Why do I still put up with Sherlock?_ he wondered. _Why isn't he telling me about that mysterious other person he thinks is involved? Is this one of his silly notions that I should find this out on my own? It'd save us precious time if Sherlock is being straightforward instead of setting bloody riddles._

It was infuriating. Especially since this seemed to be a personal case. It bothered John that his best friend didn't seem to trust him on this.

 _It seems that_ I _have to trust_ him _on this. There must be a reason why he is not telling me everything. Either I am going crazy finding out what it is or I choose to wait until he tells me._

John calmed down enough to slow down and look around. He was now walking along Ulster Terrace, so he merely had to cross the street to enter Regent's Park. At that moment a sleek black car stopped next to him. A door opened. Sighing, John stepped close.

“Really, Mycroft? I am not in the mood right now.”

“Are you ever, my dear John?”

“Bugger off.”

“I thought you'd want some answers. But instead, you employ useless thoughts in that funny little brain of yours.”

“I'd rather have a funny little brain and a big heart than a massive brain and no heart at all.”

“Rest assured that you're stuck with the Holmes brother who _does_ have a heart.”

“This is no news to me, Mycroft. If there's nothing else you can tell me, I suggest you get yourself and your pretentious car out of my sight.”

“Oh, do get in, John. I have information for you.”

John got in the car, albeit grumpily. What – or rather whom – he spotted when he got in, made him nearly choke on his next words. Next to Mycroft sat the last person he was expecting to see.

“Hello, John.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

The very moment he received Irene's last text message, Sherlock phoned Lestrade.

“Hello, Sherlock. If you're asking for a new case, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Nothing fancy on the horizon.”

“Can you locate a mobile number for me?”

“If it's not for a case, I'm afraid I can't.”

“It _is_ a case.”

“Care to tell me more about it?”

“Please, Greg. It's urgent.”

“It must be. You remember my first name correctly.” Sherlock could practically hear the smirk on Lestrade's face.

“It is, yes. It concerns John.”

“Is he in danger?”

“I hope not.”

“Okay, give me the number and I'll get our technician on it. Call you right back.”

While he waited, Sherlock anxiously paced the flat. He vaguely wondered why John hadn't come back yet. It was not like him to take prolonged walks. Usually he calmed down fairly quickly after a row with Sherlock. _This time, though_ , thought Sherlock, _he must be really pissed off. He doesn't understand why I wouldn't be open with him. I barely understand it myself. No real data to base my deductions on. Facts: a missing violin. Someone has stolen it from Euros's cell. Irene is most likely involved. Mycroft has certainly deleted the footage without telling me. Why Mycroft? Is someone blackmailing him? Why is he giving in to that person? What is the ultimate goal behind this?_

His ringing mobile interrupted his reeling thoughts. It was Lestrade.

“Hey Sherlock. Good news. We could locate the mobile.”

“Where is it?”

“Bart's.”

“Oh God, no.”

“What's wrong, Sherlock?”

But Sherlock had already disconnected the call.

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock arrived at Bart's, he had worked himself up to a state of mild hysteria. He had tried to reach John on his mobile several times, unsuccessfully. Of course, John could still be mad with him and drown his anger in several pints in a pub down the road. But somehow Sherlock doubted this.

 _Something must be wrong_.

Although Lestrade had not been able to provide the exact location of Irene's mobile, Sherlock was fairly certain where she would be. He took the elevator up to the highest floor and stepped out on the rooftop, nerves flattering.

The first thing that caught his attention was the fierce wind. It was so forceful that he barely heard the music that was played at a distance to the door where he was still standing, rooted to the spot. But then the wind slackened, and he heard his very own violin, played by a woman clad in a black coat. She was standing next to the railing with her back to him, and her long dark hair was swept like a flame behind her by a few gusts of wind.

Sherlock was instantly caught up in the melancholic tune. He wasn't familiar with the piece, but it stirred some nameless emotion in him. It was the first time he was back on the roof from which he had fallen into his fake death, to save his best friend. He remembered the tears streaming from his face when he had ended the phone call with John. He remembered the fall, which seemed to have lasted hours, the hurried preparations all falling into place so that no one would see behind his masterful trick. He remembered the look on John's face when he visited Sherlock's emtpy grave. It had broken his heart.

Sherlock looked up when the music stopped. He slowly approached the railing and briefly wondered whether it was Irene standing there with her back to him. But no. When he drew nearer, the woman turned around and gracefully swung her long hair over one shoulder. She held Sherlock's violin clutched to her breast, as if it was very precious to her.

“Molly.”

“Didn't expect that, did you?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

While Sherlock attempted to look calm, his mind was racing. _What did you do, Molly? Why is Irene involved? Why Euros? Is that a coffin next to the railing?_ He hadn't noticed it before, so engrossed had he been in the music.

Sherlock suddenly felt an icy hand clutching his heart. His mind grew numb.

_John has never answered my calls._

Molly looked expectantly at him, as if she wanted him to figure it out all by himself. Finally, she spoke.

“Remember the day you came to me to apologise?”

Sherlock could only nod.

“I should have been mad at Euros. And I was, at first. It was her stupid game, after all, and you were as much a toy as I was. But after you'd left, it dawned on me that I'd rather be mad at _you_ , Sherlock.”

“I don't understand.” Sherlock's tone was defensive.

“Really, Sherlock? I am no fool. Neither are you. I know that the first person you thought about who would fit in that empty coffin was _not_ me.”

 _John_.

“It was so obvious, wasn't it? _Somebody loves you_.” Molly's voice grew angrier. She was facing him directly now. The violin hung limply by her side, forgotten.

“I admit, I was considering it could be him.”

“Rubbish.” Her face was livid now. “You _knew_ the coffin was meant for John, and you wanted to protect him. Just like you did when you faked your death. Instead you chose to put _me_ into danger.”

“But –” he quickly found the flaw in her logic – “if Euros intended the coffin to be for John, you were never in real danger. You see that, don't you?”

“All the more reason for _you_ to see that there was no point in putting me through that farce. I don't know if I can ever forgive you for that.”

Molly looked as if she had spent most of her anger. Her face betrayed a sadness that pierced Sherlock's heart. He remembered vividly how she told him that she loved him. How her voice broke. And how she had demanded that he say the words to her first. He had felt awful. _Bloody emotions_.

“What do you want, Molly?”

“Well, I won't just give you back your violin.”

“I figured as much.”

“I'd rather throw it over the railing.”

“Please don't, Molly.”

Sherlock suddenly remembered Irene's text.  _This is not about the violin._

“Well, it's either that or the empty coffin. If it's indeed empty, that is.”

“Don't tell me he is in there.” _If she hurts John …_

“Oh, he is comfortable for now. The coffin _is_ his size, after all.”

“Why would you hurt John? He is our friend. _Your_ friend.”

“I don't _want_ to hurt him. It's all up to you, Sherlock.”

“If you want to get your revenge because of that bloody phone call – which I deeply regret, by the way, and I told you so – you should vent your anger at me. John has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, but he does. You want to save him? Go ahead and tell him you love him.” She pointed to the coffin.

Sherlock thought his legs would give out. When he was finally able to come up with an answer, all he managed to say was “But John knows I love him. Why would I need to make sappy confessions?”

“You forced _me_ to make a sappy confession, remember?”

“And now you're creating the same scenario. For what, Molly?”

But Sherlock knew the answer. _She wants to put me through the same humiliation. Confessing without knowing if my love will be returned. Without knowing if it will damage our friendship._

“It's either the violin or the coffin that goes over the railing. You decide.”

“You wouldn't do that, Molly.”

“Never underestimate a spurned woman.” She looked at him, and the full force of her emotions hit him worse than a blow by her own hand could have. _The things we do for love_. _Now, where have I heard that line before?_ It didn't matter now. He had to gain some precious time.

“Irene's behind that plan, isn't she?”

“Oh, _Irene_. She was simply a means to an end. I couldn't have blackmailed your brother as effectively as she did. And I needed Euros to get access to your violin. While I remained in the background of this game.”

Sherlock gaped at her.

“This is not a bloody game, Molly.”

“You're right. It isn't. This is about you and John. Tell him that you love him. You desperately want to. I am just setting the stage. Come to think of it, I'm doing you a favour.”

Sherlock stepped forward. He saw tears blinking in Molly's eyes. She then turned around and faced the railing, as if she wanted to give him some privacy. He thought that he heard some faint _click_ behind him, but never turned around. He approached the coffin, intent upon his task.

Fixing his gaze upon the engraved words _Somebody loves you_ , Sherlock cleared his throat. _Why is this so difficult?_ He drew a shaky breath.

“John. _John_? Do you hear me?”

No answer. He couldn't tell whether John was even in the coffin. Nor what would happen if he refused to talk. But he didn't want to take any chances. Not with John.

“I don't even know if you're here. I'd rather tell you this face to face. Or not at all … But it seems I'm not the one dictating the terms of this.” He trailed of, unsure of what to say next.

 _Don't be such a coward,_ he scolded himself, _you traded death pills with a mad cabbie, hunted down a criminal network and fell from this very roof. And now you're hesitating?_ But he was terrified. Mycroft was possibly right – caring was not an advantage, not when it came to the point where you had to confess your feelings without knowing whether they would be appreciated.

No going back now. He closed his eyes.

“John, I love you. You know I do. But do you know why I never told you openly? Because I am _afraid_. Afraid where that would leave us. What you would expect from me, other than what we have now. Maybe it's irrational. Remember when you cried in my arms? When I said to you _It is what it is_? It's the same with my love for you. It just _is_. Maybe it has always been, since the day I met you. But it feels so fragile that I don't dare speaking about it.”

Still no reaction. He ploughed on.

“If I have to speak those words now to save you, I will. I love you. You're my best friend. You're family. You saved me countless times and make me human. All of this is true, and I could say a lot more. But none of this feels adequate. … I think you deserve so much more than a broken man who is not even sure if he can give you … everything you want from a partner. You may think that we have an unhealthy and broken relationship. We went through so much crap together and inflicted wounds on each other along the way. But I don't want it any other way. It's either you or no one, John.”

Sherlock had to draw breath. His view was suddenly blurred from unshed tears. He was at a loss where all this had come from. It seemed that once the words had left his mouth, he couldn't stop. He ought to have felt embarrassed for saying all this in Molly's presence, but he didn't. He almost felt exhilarated.

Someone behind him coughed politely.

“Oh, this was all rather touching, Sherlock. Who would've thought.”

Sherlock spun around and faced none other than a smirking Irene. More importantly, however, was the man standing directly behind her.

 _John_.

Time slowed down almost to a standstill. John and Sherlock were staring at each other. Silence ensued.

Sherlock's first thought was _Thank God_. John was alive and well. He was not trapped in the coffin, had never been in real danger. Somehow, Sherlock had doubted it anyway. But it was another thing altogether to _see_ him. Now that he knew John was safe, Sherlock couldn't help but drink in his features.

He searched John's face. His eyes. They were a dark blue, fathomless pool of barely suppressed feelings, too confusing to be read clearly. There was tenderness, yes. But also anger. John's lips were pressed together, his brow furrowed. His whole demeanor was rigid, as if he tried to keep a physical reaction in check.

“Not the reaction you were hoping for, Sherlock?” Irene sent an almost apologetic smile in Sherlock's direction. “Well, we have set the stage, now it's up to you to accomplish the rest.”

If anything, her remark even deepened the frown on John's face. He threw Sherlock a look of deepest disappointment, turned on his heels and headed towards the stairs. Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, at a loss as to what John was so upset about.

_He wouldn't think this was all_ my _idea, would he?_

He finally followed John down the stairs and found him in the street, hailing a cab. Not a word was spoken during their journey home, through the bustling streets under an ever darkening sky. The silence was killing Sherlock. He cursed Molly's actions. What was the good in confessing his feelings if John was so clearly angry about it? Maybe he had disturbed that fragile balance of their relationship?

The cab arrived at Baker Street and they went up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson, upon hearing their arrival, opened the door and started lecturing them.

“I have no idea what you two have been up to, and I don't want to know. But, honestly, _John_. Is there any excuse for forgetting to pick up Rosie? The poor nanny never reached you on your mobile, and thank God she had my number and I was at home, so Rosie is with me now. How many times to I have to tell you that I'm not your housekeeper? Let alone your babysitter?”

John went to her and gave her a hug, effectively interrupting her rant. “I am truly sorry, Mrs Hudson. We had a bit of a crisis earlier. I was practically kidnapped and no one could reach me. Of course I was worried sick about Rosie.”

On hearing this, Mrs Hudson was not able to remain disgruntled. She gracefully accepted the apology, went to fetch Rosie and put her in John's arms.

“She is fast asleep, so you better put her to bed straight away. I have fed her already.”

“Ta, Mrs Hudson.”

John went upstairs, not looking back once to see if Sherlock was following. Which Sherlock meant to do, but he was being held back by Mrs Hudson.

“What's the story with you two?”

It was impossible to avoid her stern look. Sherlock didn't even try. He felt on the verge of a breakdown. His feelings for John were out in the open, but he didn't know whether they were appreciated, let alone returned. He felt as if his skin was stretched to the point of tearing, leaving him utterly vulnerable.

Sherlock took two steps towards Mrs Hudson and gave her a hug. It was an altogether different sort of embrace than the one John had given her. John had wanted to reassure Mrs Hudson that all was well, Sherlock was the one who needed reassurance.

If Mrs Hudson was surprised about another display of affection – from Sherlock, no less – she didn't show it.

“Emotional, are we?” She patted his arm, then took a step back and gave him a soothing smile.

“John thinks I arranged this whole kidnapping thing.” he blurted out.

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why would he think that?”

“Because he drew the wrong conclusions from what little he knew.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I am not responsible for his brain capacity.”

“Oh, cut that crap. What did you tell him?”

“That I love him.”

Mrs Hudson made a small sound of delight before assuming a slightly confused look.

“Why would he be upset about that? It's obvious that you two love each other and it was high time you told him so.”

“But he feels manipulated.” Sherlock was tired of explaining why John would think that.

“Off you go then.” She shoved him in the direction of his flat. “Tell him that you didn't manipulate him. And then repeat what you told him earlier.” She made it sound the easiest thing in the world.

Sherlock sighed, thanked her and went upstairs, literally dragging his feet behind him. He dreaded the conversation. On entering the flat he saw that John hadn't returned from his room where he probably sat by Rosie's cot to watch her sleeping.

Sherlock flopped down on the couch, unsure of what was awaiting him. He silently cursed Irene for making that thoughtless ( _no, deliberate_ ) remark about having set a stage. He cursed himself for not voicing to John his suspicions that Molly was involved in this and that this was probably personal. Keeping all of this to himself had made everything worse. But he couldn't change that now. He could only hope to offer an explanation that John was willing to accept.

John came back, but instead of sitting next to Sherlock, he chose to stand at a distance, still silent. Sherlock sensed that he would have to start the talking. He looked up and was barely able to face John's anger.

“You're upset, John.”

John chuckled, a joyless sound. “Ten points for your deductive skills.”

“But … you can't probably be upset about what I said to you?” Sherlock hated how insecure his voice sounded.

“I am not. But that's not the point. Why, Sherlock, _why_ was it necessary to play this bloody, fucked-up game, involving Euros, Molly and Irene, to fool me into thinking that something else entirely was going on, all this simply to make a love confession?”

 _It's far from being simple,_ Sherlock thought.

“I did _not_ stage this, John.”

“Well, it bloody well looked like you did.” John would not give an inch.

“Why would I do that?”

“How am I supposed to know? Because you were bored and needed the thrill? Because you're a drama queen? Because you didn't care that it involved dragging me into a gigantic lie? Everyone was in on the game – Mycroft, Molly, Euros, Irene … for what? Do you honestly think I need a fucking _stage_ to hear what you had to tell me?”

John's voice had grown louder.

“I don't know if you even _mean_ what you said. And I'm done with not knowing and being kept in the dark.”

“I understand.” Sherlock tried, and failed, to hide the desperateness in his voice. “But please, will you let me explain? Hear me out, John. It's very important.”

“No, Sherlock. I won't be fed another lie or half-truth. I'm getting my answers, but not from you.”

Before Sherlock could react, John had grabbed his coat and left the flat.

 


	11. Chapter 11

“John.” Molly opened the door to her flat. She half expected him to be calling on her.

“I want answers, Molly.” John didn't waste any time on small talk, stepped into her flat and faced her.

Molly sighed as she took in his features. His face bore the typical stoic John Watson expression, while his eyes betrayed anger and confusion. To her surprise, she saw that his right hand was slightly shaking. It was only a minuscule movement, but it said a lot about how much this affected him. His hands would never shake the slightest even in mortal danger. But this was not a typical fight-or-flight situation. John wasn't running high on adrenaline. He was running high on emotions. Molly could sympathise.

She gave him the cup of tea she had just made for herself and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“You'll get your answers. I just don't know whether you will like them.”

John's face darkened.

“Don't spare me. What could be worse than my best friend lying to me?”

Molly sighed, again.

“Sherlock came to me a few weeks ago.”

***

“ _I don't want to see you, Sherlock. Go away.”_

_Molly had opened the door to find Sherlock standing on her doorstep, looking determined. On seeing him, she could barely suppress the urge to slam the door in his face. Sherlock had caused her so much pain only a few weeks ago – and now he had the cheek to turn up at her flat and disturb her barely restored inner balance?_

“ _Please”, he said. “Hear me out.”_

_His voice sounded desperate and gave her pause. Molly never asked herself how Sherlock had felt throughout the whole ordeal. She sensed that he wouldn't be so cruel to her for no reason. He probably was as much a victim as she was. But, she had to remind herself sternly,_ she _was the one who had to humiliate herself by telling him that she loved him. She could not so easily forgive him for dragging her through this. Facing him again brought up all the bitterness, the longing and the shame she so desperately wanted to forget._

_Despite all this, Molly let him in and closed the door carefully. She didn't offer him tea and he didn't ask for it. This was not an exchange of pleasantries, after all. He remained standing, facing the living room. At first, he seemed unable to even look at her. She wasn't helping him along, but waited for him to do the talking._

_When Sherlock finally spoke, it was with an undertone of deepest regret._

“ _Molly, I know that you probably don't want to see me or speak to me.”_

_She did not deign this with an answer._

“ _I'll try and explain everything to you.”_

_Still, she wouldn't answer. What could he possibly say to justify his actions?_

_Sherlock explained. The longer he talked – about Euros, her psychopathic brilliance, the way she regarded humans as mere collateral damage in her attention-seeking games – the more Molly felt herself soften towards Sherlock. In her wildest dreams she could not have envisioned the story that now unfolded before her. What she understood, and nothing else mattered for now, was that Sherlock had never intended to hurt her on purpose._

_Molly found it hard to remain calm after Sherlock had told her the whole story. First, because she felt deeply sorry for every victim of Euros's madness. Second, because she could no longer direct her anger at Sherlock. Or Euros, for that matter. The woman was obviously suffering from a childhood trauma combined with the brain of a genius no one acknowledged. Molly almost felt sorry for her._

_It was Molly's biggest asset – and her curse – that she was able to empathise and therefore justify other people's actions. She often felt torn between her strong moral compass and her readiness to forgive others. Now that Sherlock was apologising to her, Molly cursed herself for not being able to remain angry._

_Sherlock looked at her, a strange mixture of vulnerability and defensiveness in his features._

“ _Believe me, Molly, when I say I never wanted to drag you into this.”_

“ _And yet, you were the one who came up with my name.”_

“ _Because it was the right answer.” He looked at her as if to say,_ You doubt that?

Oh Sherlock, _she thought_. Are you really that clueless?

“ _That depends on the perspective, I would say”, she answered carefully._

“ _But you …?”_

“ _Yes, I do.”_

“ _Then what ...”_

“ _This is not about me, Sherlock. It never has been.”_

_His baffled look was almost comical. Molly briefly wondered if she should be amused or angry about his ignorance to see what was so obvious to her. She took one step towards him, closed the distance, and put her arms around him._

“ _Go home, Sherlock.” she whispered into his shoulder._

_When he turned around and quietly shut the door, she buried her face in her hands and suppressed oncoming tears. It had been unbearably difficult for her to see Sherlock again. She could understand his motives. She could even forgive him. But she could not forgive him for being ignorant and cowardly about his own feelings for John._

_Slowly, a plan formed in her mind. If making Sherlock admit his love for John entailed some revenge for what she had to suffer, then who was she to let that opportunity pass?_

_Time to take action._

***

“So all of this was your idea?”

John looked disbelievingly at Molly after she had ended. Of course, he had suspected _something_. Otherwise, he wouldn't have come to her, demanding answers. After all, it had been Molly in the back of Mycroft's car, so she _had_ to have played some part in this. But somehow John had stuck with the notion that Irene was behind all of this. It seemed far too cunning to be Molly's plan. He simply didn't assume she would invest her intelligence in some sort of revenge-come-matchmaking-act. Oh, if he had been able to step out on the rooftop only moments earlier, he would have heard about Molly's plan and not suspected Sherlock. But Irene had made sure that he remained behind the closed door until she allowed him to go out and hear Sherlock's love confession. Which had left him speechless.

“Not all of it.” Molly replied calmly. “I merely came up with a rough plan to make Sherlock acknowledge his feelings. Irene did the fine tuning, Euros was only too happy to help. We wanted to set such a stage that Sherlock would be forced to confess his feelings for you.”

“You gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

“It sounds so much worse when you put it that way, John.” Molly shot him a smirk.

“So. You got your revenge, I guess.”

“Yes.”

“Now what?”

“The rest is up to you two idiots.” She smiled fondly at him.

“I guess I have to thank you for this?” John grumbled.

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“Maybe, I will, someday. When I'll know, in hindsight, that something good has come of your scheme.”

“Good luck, John.” She kissed him on the cheek and watched him leaving, a slight smile on her face.

Hopefully, they would sort it out. If not, there was plan B. Irene had said that one always needed a plan B. It involved John and Sherlock locked up in Euros's cell.

Molly sincerely hoped they wouldn't have to resort to such drastic measures.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was a bundle of nerves by the time John came back. In turns, he sat down on the couch, went to look after Rosie, made himself tea – only to forget the cup on the kitchen counter until the liquid was undrinkable slush – and frantically paced the living-room, all the while listening for John's footsteps outside.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he finally heard the door open. John walked in, shed his coat and went to stand before Sherlock with a carefully neutral expression.

“Why, Sherlock?” he finally asked. There was no anger in this voice.

“Why didn't I tell you I suspected Molly?” Sherlock drew a deep breath. “Because it would have caused more questions I was afraid to face. Such as, why do you suspect her? Why would she do that?”

“And that would have been a bad thing because...?”

“Because you wouldn't have believed me had I told you that she was merely seeking revenge.”

“And I would have been right not to believe you.”

Sherlock held his breath. What did John know?

“Of course Molly did this not only for revenge.” John said. “That's simply not her style. She wanted something good to come out of this mess and was willing to set up a plan to get a confession out of you. She managed to turn a simple act of revenge in something selfless.”

It was so like John to see the good in what Molly did. Sherlock had to smile before he spoke.

“Molly is a great friend. I'm still deeply ashamed of what I put her through.”

“Then why did you do it?”

That was the crux of the matter. Sherlock knew he had to be honest, once and for all.

“Because I'd rather have come up with her name if that means I could protect you. I didn't know what Euros would have done with you had I given her your name.”

The last words rang unnaturally loud in the quiet living-room. John's eyes never left Sherlock's. Affection shone in them. Suddenly he smirked.

“There's another reason why it would have been risky.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock was not sure if he liked where this was going.

“Yes. You couldn't know if I _do_ love you.”

“Do you?” He held his breath.

John merely smiled, turned around and left Sherlock standing in the middle of the room,  looking bewildered.

***

When Sherlock entered John's bedroom some time later, he found John in his bed, facing him. Rosie was peacefully sleeping in her cot, a few feet away. Sherlock looked from her tiny shape back to John. After a few moments of breathless silence, he worked up the courage to climb in John's bed and crawl under the duvet. He stretched out carefully next to John, not daring to move. It was hard not to be overwhelmed by John's presence, the warmth, and his unique scent, emanating from him. John's eyes were on him, nearly black and hard to read.

“I am sorry, John.” Sherlock finally whispered. “Sorry to have put you through all of this. I was too afraid where confessing my feelings would leave us.”

“It leaves us here. Nothing has changed.” John spoke calmly.

“Everything has changed.”

“No, Sherlock. You simply told me what I knew all along. It's not frightening me. Not any more. And, yes, you know I love you back. Now go to sleep, it's been an awfully long day. We can figure out the details tomorrow and the rest of our lives.”

Sherlock looked at him. His heart thumped against his ribcage in a mad rhythm. He was still afraid. But if John was unafraid, he would follow his lead. He felt John's hand close around his right wrist, then his arm was pulled forward until he was snugly pressed against John's chest. He carefully wrapped himself around John and felt his tension dissipate.

The last thing Sherlock noticed before his gigantic, restless brain finally shut down for the night, was John's hand at the nape of his neck and his even breathing rhythm that told him his friend was peacefully asleep in his arms.

All was well.

 


End file.
